


sleeping with my eyes wide open

by lostnfound14



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Billy Hargrove Needs a Hug, Billy Hargrove-centric, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mind Control, Protective Eleven | Jane Hopper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:56:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24389281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostnfound14/pseuds/lostnfound14
Summary: Being able to look at the back of your own head, and the stock-still muscles of your back as they stretched the fabric of your tank top, was an odd feeling, Billy noted. If he was really feeling anything at all. If he was even Billy Hargrove anymore, and not just a husk to be occupied by whatever that… thing was in the warehouse, whenever It saw fit.-Billy is "dormant," but he is oh so awake.(Takes place during the scene in 3x06 where Eleven tries to access his memories.)
Relationships: Eleven | Jane Hopper & Billy Hargrove, Eleven | Jane Hopper/Billy Hargrove
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	sleeping with my eyes wide open

**Author's Note:**

> so it has been almost a year since stranger things 3 came out and something motivated me to start watching those stupid little netflix videos about the show again. then i saw that one video in my recommended, "in defense of billy," because i'd been meaning to watch it but never got around to it. and the guy who made it went into such detail about billy's character that i had never really thought about. all i knew was that he was a misunderstood, abused kid, but still an asshole. and, well, he's all of those things, but there's more to it. and he made me realize just how much potential was wasted with his character. billy was supposed to get more screentime in 3, and he did, but for 90% of that time he was flayed.  
> which brings us to this little thing i wrote, motivated by that very video and the thought that billy deserved some more attention than the writers of the show gave him. so here is my attempt to dive into his flayed mind.  
> i'm sorry for this long-winded note, but i had a lot of things on my mind and had to get them all out. i hope you all enjoy.

Being able to look at the back of your own head, and the stock-still muscles of your back as they stretched the fabric of your tank top, was an odd feeling, Billy noted. If he was really _feeling_ anything at all. If he was even Billy Hargrove anymore, and not just a husk to be occupied by whatever that… _thing_ was in the warehouse, whenever It saw fit. 

Sure, he wanted out. He wanted to free himself from the crushing weight that came with the presence of whatever-the-fuck It was in his head. It was as if the human in him was simply whisked away and replaced by something worse, while still being allowed to observe how helpless and _wrong_ he looked. At first, he wanted to cry. He wanted to scream, and punch a hole in his wall, and fuck his frustrations out. But there It was, whispering in his ear: _Build, Billy. You will build._ And he melted into the voice, allowing It to consume him, because it wasn’t like he had a choice. Even if he wanted to off himself, It wouldn’t have let him.

No, it was clear that It needed him. In that, he felt a sense of power, though minute, barely-even-there because It controlled everything else. It reminded him of his own father in this way. When he was present, he was suffocating. When he was not, Billy felt a tense and breathless sense of freedom. He could move, breathe, bask in the sunlight. It tasted sweet because it never lasted long.

It would always come back. It would take a choke-hold on his entire body, and remind him what was really in control. He couldn’t even flex the knuckles on his God-damned hand: the knuckles that had knocked several people’s lights out, that had shown him what the insulation coating of his bedroom looked like, that had worn shiny metal rings. Knuckles that had bloodied themselves in his efforts to “build,” dragging people he had never met back to where it all began.

It didn’t even let him feel anything anymore, aside from a screeching, sizzling pain when in the sun, and the moving of his lips and vibration of his vocal cords when It spoke through him. It made him feel truly powerless, more powerless than his father could ever make him feel. And his father made him feel like the shit on the bottom of his shoe.

A bird chirped outside of his window. He wanted to lean out of his window and say _Hello,_ _little bird._ Maybe it would say _Hello, Billy Hargrove_ back. But when he so much as tried to turn his head, It took an iron-grip on his body once again as if having been caught slipping.

Billy tried to flex his toes then. It didn’t even let him do that. He wanted to cry again. He wanted so badly to be able to do _something,_ no matter how pathetic it was.

Through the silence came an odd noise. Static. Faint, but there. It sounded like the waves back on the beach, thousands of miles away. He pretended it was his mother calling to him, asking that he come back. 

There was a presence approaching him. He could not so much see it as sense it, his blank brain finally registering something other than It, breathing down his neck and directing his every action. It took unsure, slow steps toward him, but it was undeniably coming closer. Would it observe him like he was a caged animal? Would it rescue him? Likeliest was that It was just toying with him.

The presence stood right in front of him. He could feel its breath on his face, pulling him back into his own body. Something tickled his hand, and with that sensation, Billy felt the environment around him dissipate into nothing, an all-encompassing blackness. All that was left was him, his bed, and the presence, which had now lifted his hand into the air. 

The touch they shared must have triggered something; he could see the presence now. It was a small girl in a yellow-and-black artsy print shirt. 

The thought came to Billy unbidden, probably not even his: _It is Her._ The girl who intruded on his dinner with Heather and her parents. The girl It saw when he had brought Heather to the warehouse. There was an intrigued tone to Its voice as it bounced off the walls of his mind.

He thought back to Its reaction to her on their other encounters, being an outside (inside?) observer to their clashes: surprise and fear. It had filled his head with images of the same girl, closing Its entrance into his world, and with those pseudo-memories came such a strong feeling of _hate_ that it felt like his head was going to split open with its intensity. Billy wasn't dumb. If a little girl could make It piss Its pants, she had to be way more than met the eye. That thought brought him a rush of... something. It tasted like optimism.

Her breaths were hitched and her eyes were wet. Again, the grating voice whispered in his ear. _Do not be deceived, Billy Hargrove. She is powerful._

Even so, she was _afraid_ of him. Or maybe she was afraid of It, which was nestled deeply within him and waiting to strike. He felt her hand shake in his, like she was ready to let go and jump back at any moment. Nonetheless, she pressed on:

“Billy.” 

Her voice was soft. The pressure of her hand helped him remember what it felt like to be touched lovingly, tenderly. Her touch was not that of the girls he brought home, who would run their hands up his sides while they moaned his name. No, this was something else entirely, reminding him a bit too much of Mom, who would cradle his face in her hands and tell him _That was amazing, sweetie._

_I’m here,_ he wanted to say. A rush of determination overtook him, and he tried his hardest to speak, Hell, even tap his finger on the back of her hand, to show that he was _there._

“Can you hear me?”

_Yes, YES,_ he could hear her. He wanted to whoop with joy and thank God, if there was one. Shit, he’d start going to church if it meant he could make it out. _Deliverance_ was not a foreign concept, though his knowledge of the Bible was limited. 

He started to channel all of his concentration into communicating with her somehow. He already felt lighter with her hand in his, like he was bearing witness to the sun coming out after a thunderstorm. _It_ began to fade to the back of his mind.

“I want to see.” She begged now, as if she understood his pain. She wanted to free him from it. “I want to see what happened.” Billy wanted to let her see.

_C’mon, c'mon c'mon c’mon c'mon…_

It finally lifted, barely enough to allow him to look up at her with tearful eyes. His tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, readying to speak. What would he say? _Mind your fucking business._ That was something very _him_ , indeed. Or, he could be a good little boy and say _Please,_ the way he used to after getting a smack in the mouth for insolence.

_(Tell Max I miss her brat face.)_

But before he could say anything, It took over, and it felt like every individual bone in his hand was breaking and putting itself back together again as he moved to take her arm in a vice-like grip.

_NO!!!_

She looked despaired, something Billy understood because he felt it too. He felt her despair and he felt it times a thousand. She tried to free herself from his grip and he tried to let her go, but It disagreed, a cold voice reverberating in his ear and sending chills down his spine: _She works against us. She wants to destroy what we have built._

He didn’t give a damn what he’d “built” under Its control. He wanted to go home. He wanted to leave this mysterious pocket dimension, leave It behind, with this girl who had the gall to try and save him.

_Let her go,_ he tried to reason with It.

_Is that what you want, Billy Hargrove?_ It asked. The question surprised him. It gave him a flicker of hope.

_Yes._

_Then you shall both get what you want._

Billy’s hope was stolen from him as quickly as it had sparked, like a magician smoothly removing a tablecloth, because there was something sinister and teasing in Its tone. After all, It was in control. It did what It wanted. 

It let go. Billy felt his heart climb into his throat as she slipped through his fingers. With the sudden change of momentum she went flying backward, her eyes blown open in shock and fear as she flailed desperately. His hand hovered dumbly in the air, as if cast permanently in that position, reaching out into nothingness. 

No, she couldn’t leave, not when she was so close to pulling him out. He couldn’t let It get to her. _DON’T LEAVE ME,_ he tried to scream. His jaw was clamped closed, of course. _It does what It wants,_ he reminded himself, feeling a mix of defeat, rage, and anguish as he watched her continue to 

fall, 

fall, 

fall.

.

.

.

And then she was gone. 

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you guys enjoyed that. a lot of the time, i don't put a lot of thought into changing/editing my work, but this particular piece felt like something more complex than anything else i've ever done. so i don't know if i accurately captured his "bad boy" persona, because i was more focused on the broken part of him. i just hope i did him justice and that all who read this got what they wanted from this piece.  
> (side note: billy and eleven's bond that was there but also not really there throughout the whole season was a whole well of untapped potential. sure, they got that payoff in the finale, but all the thoughts of what that could have been had billy lived really irk me. justice for billy.)  
> if you liked this, please leave a comment or kudos! they are my lifeblood. thank you all so much for reading.


End file.
